


a tickle like bleeding

by foggynite



Category: The Brotherhood (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ramsey Dies, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 14:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggynite/pseuds/foggynite
Summary: This is reality.
Relationships: Lex/Roger (The Brotherhood)





	a tickle like bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 8/5/04.

It’s been a fucked up night (how will he explain it).

Yeah, understatement. If he wonders how he got from point A to point fucking Q, he’s not going to waste the time thinking about it now.

Because Ramsey is dead (not Ramsey some demon thing), and Lex is mostly responsible for it. He’s tasted magic tonight, the kind that runs its fingers along your spine and reaches into your heart, freezing it with a touch and turning everything to frost. Magic, and the game became real, they could all finally see it, see what it was like in his head (it’s always been real they never believed). But they still think it’s just some sort of game. They don’t understand. Ramsey did. Ramsey’s dead.

And he’ll have to think about that, and all the other shit it entails, if he can stop kissing Roger long enough to think. But he’s won’t (can’t).

Instead, he wraps his arms tighter around the other boy’s shoulders and puts a booted foot up on the couch, pulling Roger down on top of him (no one’s left anymore). There’s still the rush of it all tingling in his veins, thrumming in his hands and guts and thighs, until he has to hold on to Roger just to keep from shimmering away.

Contact, warmth covering him, smothering him (soft lips better than he imagined) and he thrusts his tongue into Roger’s mouth, pulls on that pouty lower lip with his teeth. Resists the urge to bite down and watch the other boy bleed (alive they’re alive not Ramsey) and lifts the leg on the couch until Roger is nestled securely in the cradle of his hips. Lazily grinds up, enjoys the painful pleasure of denim and zippers and wallet chains between them. Roger moans into his mouth.

Panting little groans that Lex swallows, sucks into his own lungs like he might be able to breathe again (it’s always been real) and he burrows his hands into the back of Roger’s jeans, cups the smooth skin of the jock’s ass and digs his fingers in. Twists his hips and smiles when Roger’s desperate hands tug on their clothes, when he pulls Lex’s shirt up to his arm pits and grabs his waist (don’t let go just don’t it’s real) until Lex gives a grunt of almost pain. Roger releases his hold, but Lex urges him back closer with the grip on his ass.

They keep kissing (never stop) and Lex is breathing harshly through his nose, but his heart is racing and his body is in a sweat and it feels glorious. Like he can do anything, be anything (every where and no where) and just lose himself in the burn of Roger’s sweater across his abdomen, in the sharpness of Roger’s teeth, the way the buckle of Roger’s belt digs into his erection. Points of contact branding him with his first human touch, and his voice is (silent) a nasal whine in the back of his throat.

His hips are bucking up with bruising force (won’t stop) until Roger’s hand on his thigh stills them and Lex breaks away from his mouth to curse, but forgets what he wants to say when shaking fingers are fumbling with the zipper of his cargo pants (it’s real) and he retains enough state of mind to help.

Roger may have been shy giving him a ride home, but now the jock is pushing Lex’s pants to his knees along with his briefs, trapping Lex’s legs underneath his and Lex is pinned to the couch (no one will ever walk in) and writhing. There are noises coming out of his mouth that will shame him later, broken sounds of wanting and needing and burning up with the magic and desire in his limbs. His hands feel charged, like electricity will arc between his fingers and the sofa fabric, and set the place on fire. Like this couch will become his funeral pyre, and of course he wants to take someone with him (everyone in his family tries but only his father succeeded).

They get Roger’s jeans down and Lex notes absently that the boy does wear boxer briefs, and Roger’s propped up by a hand on the arm of the couch, looming over him in the darkened living room (this house is not a home) and when a car drives past, the headlights illuminate the smile on the other boy’s face. Roger’s still in his letter jacket, which is a kink Lex thought he was better than, and the jock won’t stop grinning at him like Lex is this wonderful person that’s come along (it’s always been real).

Lex can taste the other boy’s smile as he licks his way into his mouth, hot and messy and real. Grounded through his hands on naked flesh, his tongue on soft tissue, the silky hard feel of Roger’s cock sliding next to his as the jock lowers himself slowly down onto Lex. Covers him again and it’s (mindless oblivion) perfect. And Lex arches his back, straining upwards as Roger dry humps him, waits for his stomach to become slick with sweat and precome and then there’s just enough friction to hurt, to burn, and Lex is gritting his teeth. Feels the tug of each thrust in the skin of his balls, the pressure on his hip joints (not alone not alone no one). Feels and breathes and fills his lungs with Roger’s scent, some light cologne, and has an absent thought about Victoria and Megan and Kip, and buries his face against Roger’s neck, ignoring the scratch of the jacket collar against his eyelids. Listens to Roger’s grunts, the rhythmic pounding the couch’s frame is taking silently, and Lex lifts his knees, shifts so that Roger’s legs are deeper between his, kneeling on his cargo pants, and the angle is better this way.

His orgasm comes far too soon, with Roger mouthing at his ear and lost in his own sex haze, and as soon as Lex’s aftershocks are over, he just wants to go back to that silent place (the cold touch of winter in his heart). Roger pushes up on one arm again, knee sinking between the couch cushions, and Lex stares up into his eyes as the boy works himself with a hand slick in Lex’s own come. Lex takes in the flushed skin, the ghost of a smile, the openness Roger is willing to show, and wonders at the expression on his own face (burial shroud) as his stomach is spattered with come.

Roger slumps forward, not really touching him, but just hovering. Leaning over him and panting and beaming at him, and Lex runs a shaking finger over the wool fabric of the jacket. Shrugging it off, Roger tosses it to the floor (not a home).

“Mind if I crash here?” Smirking and confident but unsure, and Lex nods, remembering to swallow (a fire that would eat him alive).

There’s come on Roger’s sweater, and the edges of Lex’s rumpled shirt, and a sticky pool around Lex’s belly button. He strips off the shirt, using it to wipe himself up, and throws it down next to the jacket (ice in his veins). It all looks black in the shadows thrown by the streetlight outside.

He doesn’t want to move, because then he’ll have to think, but Roger sits back on his haunches, tugging until the sweater joins Lex’s shirt, and then his shoes, and his jeans. Lex keeps reclining against the sofa, openly watching with eyes that won’t blink (can’t close them frozen), and he doesn’t bother helping when Roger tackles his combat boots. His cargo pants fall to the floor with the chime of his wallet chain.

Shifting until he’s plastered against the back of the couch, Lex pulls Roger down so that he’s curled around the other boy. They fit together like puzzle pieces (it’s all real), limbs interlocking. Roger grabs the quilt lying across the top of the couch and manages to get them mostly covered.

It will be uncomfortable in a few minutes, but Lex is too exhausted to last that long. His arms are already heavy with sleep, and he can hear the steady pattern of Roger’s breath under his chin (not alone). He closes his eyes and just… drifts.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr


End file.
